A Silent World
by Fizz the Great
Summary: Sherlock is a deaf 24 year old junkie that helps the police once in a while with cases. Yet his life goes for a unexpected change one rainy night, on the way back home.
1. Chapter 1

He had just finished a case, simple deduction, a twirl of impressed faces among the watchers and police, and then Lestrade happily shook his hand, glad that another case was solved.

"You getting home by yourself?" Lestrade wrapped an arm around him like he was his treasured prize. It was true. Without him, Lestrade would've never been able to be promoted to Detective Inspector.

 _Taxi_ , Sherlock motioned with his hands, despite the freezing temperature outside. He really need to go get some gloves someday, perhaps make Mycroft get him one of those expensive leather ones that are extremely durable. Light rain was already beginning to fall, stinging his face as he stuffed his hands back in his pockets, trying to warm them up.

"Well, okay, see you tomorrow then!" Lestrade bid him a farewell and left. No sooner, Sherlock hailed and cab and climbed in, Redbeard following close behind.

"Where to?" The driver glanced at him from the review mirror. Sherlock handed him a slip of paper. Surprised, the driver hesitantly took it and turned it around to look at the thin scrawl of words.

 _Harrow Street 234C_

"Ah!" The driver hums, a look of satisfaction slapped on his weathered face. "Quite far from here, charges will be a bit high, but I can still take you there,"

He starts the engine and they drive off. Sherlock pulls out his phone and sends a quick text. The rain was growing torrentially now, and in minutes, the rate of the water has gone from a light drizzle to pouring rain. The sky has also darkened accordingly, obscuring most of the road and lights on either sides.

The cabbie driver muttered something about the street lights but Sherlock didn't quite catch it over the falling rain. The drops were mesmerizing, like tears sliding down the sheet of glass, dropping onto the window sill to group with the other balls of water. He wondered what rain would sound like, tiny bullets hitting the floor, perhaps creating a small music concert played plainly by nature.

A sudden beam of light swept over him and he turned to see what was going on. Redbeard stiffened beside him and Sherlock knew he was barking. Something was happening. The rain fell more heavily, blocking the entire road from view. Only two glaring headlights shone back at him, as if warning him of something. But before he could realize what was going on, the two orbs of light got closer until finally, the glass before him shattered and everything went black.

—

He sensed himself being thrown back, his head slamming on the headrest before smashing into the window beside him. He lost track of Redbeard too. Now, he laid on the ground, hard cement underneath him, bits of rock ingrained into his skin. He couldn't really feel his body anymore, and his face felt wet and sticky, maybe because of the rain or maybe because of something else.

Hi head was positioned in a way so that he was staring down the road, at the green trees with the green leaves, and the gray sky above mirroring the black cement below. It was confusing, lying on the ground. Sherlock wasn't sure how he got to the ground in the first place, and instantly his mind diagnosed him for shock. He tried moving his body. Instantly, spikes of pain ran up his legs, sending warnings throughout his brain telling him that something was broken.

Sherlock opened his mouth and a strangled cry escapes him, rain sliding down his face mixed along with the tears of pain. The torment was unbearable. It felt like he was being burned alive, wounds covering his body dying it crimson red. His fingers were covered in some sticky substance and as Sherlock looked down, he saw that they were dripping with blood.

No, no, no, this feels wrong, this all feels so wrong. Sherlock never imagined he would die this way instead of drug overdose. Of course he prepared for death at anytime, but this was ridiculous. Not to say boring at the same time. Hundreds of people die from car crashed ever year, it doesn't make his any more different.

Another shot of pain raced up his leg and he gasped again, clenching his teeth to stop himself from clattering from the cold. The rain had now completely soaked through his coat and suit, temperature dropping rapidly, smoldering the tongues of flames that still remained within the car.

Suddenly, the smell of gasoline grew near and for a fleeting instance, Sherlock thought one of the cars was leaking oil. Instead, he sensed a pair of heavy boots getting closer and finally, someone has knelt down besides him, hands hovering above his head to check for any serious injuries.

Sherlock felt a feeling that he has never experienced before wash over him, filling every single cell in his body. And then it hit him. It was the feeling of weakness. He felt stupid, lying on the ground, tears running off his face, legs stuck in the most awkward position ever. It was his worst state yet.

"Hey! Can you hear me?" The man tapped at him. Sherlock only stared blankly at the man's moving lips, efficient hands working around him checking his pulse and blood pressure. "Hey, you still there? Richard! Go call the ambulance, now!" The man called at an unseen man and Sherlock felt a series of mini earthquakes trembling beneath him.

"Hey!" He slapped Sherlock's face gently to see if he's still responding. Sherlock only blinked at him, mouth nailed shut. "Stay awake for me okay? The ambulance is coming,"

Sherlock stared at him. The man wasn't much older than him, perhaps 28 or so years old. Funny cut hair, military maybe? His head pounded and he couldn't think straight. So he stared at the man's moving lips, watching his concerned face and dripping blonde hair.

"Sir, may I take your name?"

Sherlock would've motioned with his hands if it weren't for the pain he caused at every single action. He opened his mouth to say something when he realized he really couldn't put together a word except make a few weird noises.

"Okay, okay, I know it hurts, just stay still, help is arriving," the man reassured. Sherlock stared up at him, confused at everything around him. This doesn't make sense, none of this makes sense!

Red-blue flashing lights came to view and steady hands lifted him up onto the stretcher. He craned his neck to take one last look at his recuser, despite the fiery pain that races up his body every time he tries to move. And there he was, standing there, a camouflage truck behind him, army uniform completely soaked, short blonde hair dripping with rain, and the bluest eyes he has ever seen watching him as he was carried away.

Didn't… quite catch your name, Sherlock thought. And then he sank into a disconcerting sleep.

 **For Emilie. Who has higher math scores than me. :((((**


	2. Chapter 2

It was the blinding light that eventually woke him up, however his head was much clearer than before. He can still remember snippets from the accident, the car crash made by the larger truck, lying on the ground bleeding to death, and the army doctor that helped him.

Everything else quickly dispersed after that, he couldn't remember much except someone putting on an oxygen mask on him and the blaring sounds of the ambulance as it speed into the city. Now staring up at the white blank ceiling, he tried to organize his thoughts. Items were strewn across the floor, windows shattered, files bursting out of their folders, his mind palace was a wreck.

He must have groaned because soon, a nurse came running to his bed checking his vitals.

 _Your doctor will come check on you soon,_ she signed.

Sherlock made a face at her.

The nurse blushed and ran off.

Rolling his eyes, he tried to turn to his side. The heart monitor pads snagged him and eventually, he found himself tangled in a mess of tubes and wires.

A pair of gentle hands stopped him from struggling then pushed him back to his original position, untangling wires and tubes at the same time.

 _It's very nice to meet you,_ the spectacled man signed, _I hope you're feeling okay. You were sent to the hospital in a horrible state. Badly broken leg, dislocated arm…_

Sherlock made his number 46 face. The man frowned. Sherlock wanted to sign at the man so badly that he could read lips but the tubes hurt him so much when he tried to move.

 _Is there something wrong mister?_ The man signed.

Sherlock turned away.

He hated it when people pity him and act like he's helpless. He's not helpless. Just rendered by something utterly stupid.

He sensed another presence that had entered the room. Sure enough, familiar hands touched his face to tell him he wants to look at him.

Sherlock twisted towards the owner and stared at Mycroft.

"They shouldn't be hooking you up to this type of stuff," Mycroft gestured at the morphine bag.

Sherlock made his number 6 face that was always reserved just for Mycroft. Mycroft's face remained passive.

"If you keep on making your childish faces I shall certainly call you in for cognitive recalibration." Mycroft simply stated. "I've been talking to Dr. Palmer, he told me that you've currently undergo three surgeries in total. You shouldn't be out till 2 weeks at most." He stopped and waited for Sherlock to stop making faces.

"Even if you do get out, you'll still need a cast for that leg." Mycroft sniffed disdainfully at his broken state. "The taxi driver is dead. The man who crashed into your cab is currently in jail. You're lucky you're still alive,"

 _Sentiment,_ Sherlock rolled his eyes and then looked away, a trademark sign both his brother and family knew, which meant he wants them to stop talking.

Seeing his annoyance, Mycroft only sighed.

"Mummy and Daddy are here," he said. And then he turned and left, umbrella swinging beside him.

As soon as he walked out of that door, his parents came rushing in.

"Oh Sherlock! I so happy you're doing okay!" His mother, being the one more inclined to the sentiment side first hugged him and bombed him with kisses on the forehead. "We've been so worried about you! You've been unconscious for almost three days, we thought you would never wake up," his mother fervently said.

"Ah, yes your mother was so worried in the waiting room," his father stepped in. "One hour felt like a day." Lowering his voice, "Your mother would't even let me read my book!"

"We should be praying for our poor Sherlock, not be reading!" His mother overheard his father say. "Anyway, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

"He says he's fine," his mother reassured his father.

"Sherlock, I still don't get why you like using that expression," his father noted, "I hope you're not making rude faces at those kind people who are helping you,"

 _Too late,_ he thought as his parents continue to chat animatedly to him. In seconds, he tuned out and succumbed to the sweet darkness.

 **3 more days till Season 4.**


End file.
